Robert Emmett is a writer/musician/artist who has been lurking around the fringes of the Chicago music scene since the late 1980's. Decidedly 'underground' due
Whistle for the waitress, my soul is getting cold
My coffee needs a refill, my feet itch for the road
Work to keep me busy, and keep my thinking sane
But scattered thoughts may slip,
I wind up on the floor again
The rain that falls is holy water,
It's pure enough to infect you
What's that word for things there are no words for?
Insert it here, and sing.
January whispers a wordless lullabye
I think I'm freezing over,
Your green eyes make me want to cry
The rain that falls is only water
I'm sure these days it don't affect you
What's that word for things there are no words for?
Insert It here an sing
